Walking out of the door after a less than harmonious getting ready for school time. Asking. Asking for the wonder. Praying with the boys as they hurtle down the hill. Asking. Asking for help.

Reading with others of a God who does not let go, who answers prayers, who shapes the life of ordinary people. A God who wove together Ruth and Naomi and a man called Boaz to produce good in their lives and to produce the One who it’s all about many years later. Snapshots of the hope that it is never the end of the story.

Sitting in a room spilling out random thoughts to a half stranger who helps me notice and draw strands together and be aware that hope is in this place right now. The tangled tendrils of my mind making connections, seeing change, being aware of where there needs to be more. Starting with believing I have value, I am worth taking care of, then living freely from that core. Treasuring the wonder that I really can know these things because I have been wonderfully made. I am a masterpiece, a poem, a work of art. Oh to soar in love from that place of security.

Singing loud in the car on the way home, no one around to hear my shouting tuneless voice of wonder.

Tea with a friend. Laughing together. Sharing the weirdness of 3 year olds. The 3 year old dancing over to school to get the eldest. The rare blissful cooking together moment at the end of his day. Spilling out his day to me, unpressurised and full of interest. Us noticing prayers have been answered. He made it through what started out as a tough day. He is in a good space tonight. Cuddles. Kisses. Joy.

Walking around our block, shouting Christmas at the lights breaking joy into the darkness.

Exhaustedly stumbling to the end of the day. Through the snappy weary get to beds and to the story time cuddles and sleep noises.

The house is calm again. The heating hums in the background. I breathe. Wonder is all around, twisted through the impatience and ugly to make the dark beautiful and full of light.